A Beautiful Rival, page 8
Enraged, she telephoned her lawyer and ranted down the line: “Surely this can’t be legal? I want you to find grounds for a lawsuit: infringement of my patent, perhaps, or downright theft. I want the products withdrawn. I want damages. I will not put up with this.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Arden, but you don’t have a patent on your face creams,” he replied. “All the products on the market have roughly the same ingredients in different proportions. If you had done something entirely original and that had been copied, it might have given us grounds. . . .”
Elizabeth persisted: “She is making products for sunburn, blemishes, red noses, and freckles—all the same conditions as mine. Isn’t that actionable?”
“Are there any differences in the two lines?” her lawyer asked.
“Well, hers has a summer and winter collection, but that’s just piffle. . . .”
“It doesn’t sound as if you have a case,” he concluded.
Elizabeth hurled the telephone across the room with a scream. What was that woman trying to achieve? Did she want to put her out of business? She felt a clutch of fear like a cold hand twisting her heart. She seemed to be constantly on the defensive, despite the wonderful new products she had created with Fabian Swanson’s help. What did she have to do to keep her business safe?
When Laney reported that some clients in the salon were asking if she planned to introduce a summer and winter line too, Elizabeth grew hysterical. “Don’t they know it’s just gimcrack? Whatever next? Spring and fall lines too? Rain and sunshine? I wouldn’t put anything past that woman.”
Madame Rubinstein was a bully, like the girls at school who used to giggle as they leapt out of her way for fear of catching cooties, and the boys who held their noses and nicknamed her Skunk, because her father only let them bathe once a week even when they’d been laboring in the fields.
If only she had ammunition to counterattack with. That woman was a liar. Elizabeth could feel it in her bones. Everything about her was fake.
Elizabeth wrote and told Tommy of Madame Rubinstein’s attempts to sabotage her, but his letters back made no mention of it, making her wonder if hers had gone astray. Instead, he wrote about other soldiers he had become friendly with in the trenches, about the persistent rain and sticky mud, and about French food—he had developed a taste for snails in garlic, which she thought sounded vile. It made her feel very distant from him. She certainly didn’t feel like a married woman. She had to manage everything on her own, just as she always had.
The newspapers kept reporting victories on the Western Front and said the tide of the war had turned but it could still be months or even another year before it was over. She read of soldiers returning home with life-changing injuries. What would she do if Tommy came back minus a leg? They could never go dancing again. Or what if he suffered horrific facial injuries? Or brain damage? She shuddered. They would cross that bridge if they came to it.
She hated to spend evenings alone in her apartment so she accepted every invitation that came her way. Sometimes she bought tickets for Broadway shows, then invited members of her staff to join her. When she got tickets for Oh, Lady! Lady!! at the Princess Theater, she asked in the salon if anyone liked musicals, and a new treatment girl, Edith Brown, piped up that she adored them.
Edith was a petite blonde in her early twenties, with a pretty speaking voice and a gentle manner. She arrived for their theater date wearing a purple gown in a style that was several years out of date, seeming nervous and unsure how to act. Elizabeth tried to put her at her ease.
“Where did you get your love of musicals?” she asked.
“My father had a good singing voice,” Edith said. “My parents paid for me to have singing lessons when I was younger. They hoped I might sing professionally, but I could never have done it.” She squirmed. “I’m far too shy.”
“Broadway’s loss is my gain, dear,” Elizabeth said, with a kindly smile. “Does your father sing on stage?”
Edith shook her head. “He died, almost five years ago. I’ve got three younger sisters and my mother takes in sewing to earn a little, but they mainly rely on my salary. I’m very grateful to you for hiring me, Miss Arden.”
Elizabeth was pleased to be able to help a family in need. “It’s my pleasure,” she said. “You’re a good worker and you’re popular with clients.”
They both enjoyed the show and thought its star, Vivienne Segal, gave a remarkable performance. As they talked during the interval, Edith hummed a little snatch of the title song and Elizabeth could hear how sweet her voice was.
“We should go to musicals more often, dear,” she said. “It’s nice to meet another fan.”
“I’d love to,” Edith exclaimed, her eyes shining. “Thank you, Miss Arden.”
Elizabeth felt protective toward her. It was clear her home life was difficult. Perhaps she would give her a bonus. She might even be in line for promotion if she carried on doing so well.
A telegram arrived from Elizabeth’s younger sister, Gladys, who lived in Toronto. “Have left Albert,” she wrote. “Can I stay with you?”
“Hallelujah!” Elizabeth cheered, and replied by return, inviting Gladys to stay as long as she wanted. Divorce was a stain on a woman’s reputation, but sometimes there was no other option.
Gladys arrived in Manhattan two days later, with just a small suitcase. She had lost weight, her clothes were worn, and her hair needed a good cut. As she hugged her in greeting, Elizabeth decided to offer her a top-to-toe treatment at the salon the very next day.
First of all, she had the maid bring tea and they sat on the couch, feet curled under them.
Gladys was clearly shaken about the end of her marriage. “He didn’t hit me,” she replied in answer to Elizabeth’s question, her voice trembling, “but I was a prisoner. He locked me in the house when he went out, leaving a list of tasks I had to complete by his return. I climbed out a window and ran away while he was at work, but I couldn’t bring much with me. I had to leave most of my clothes.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” Elizabeth said. “We’ll get you a new wardrobe.”
Gladys pursed her lips. “He’ll be furious. I’m sure he won’t give me any money. I’ll have to look for a job.”
“Nonsense!” Elizabeth said. “Money’s not a problem. You can help in the salon if you like, but first you need to get your strength back.”
She felt very protective of her poor fragile sister and furious with Albert. How dare he terrorize such a gentle soul! She wished she could give him a piece of her mind, but the best revenge would be to help her sister start a new life without him.
Gladys insisted she wanted to earn her keep, so Elizabeth said she could shadow her at the salon, seeing how the business operated and deciding which role she fancied. She was there the following morning when Laney arrived for their meeting, and Elizabeth could tell Laney’s nose was slightly out of joint. She smiled to herself. She didn’t want to upset Laney, but a little competition would remind her that even she wasn’t irreplaceable.
Laney reported on a new clarifying lotion Madame Rubinstein had launched, and Elizabeth explained to Gladys that the Polish woman had been copying her products and advertisements ever since she arrived in New York.
“She even planted a spy in my company,” she complained. “I bounced him, but the leaks are continuing and I fear there could be another. Meanwhile, my incompetent lawyers can’t seem to find any grounds to sue her.”
“You don’t need to sue,” Gladys replied. “You are America’s most prestigious beauty business. Don’t let her see that you are rattled. Carry on as you are, and sooner or later she’ll trip herself up in her desperation to imitate you.”
Elizabeth liked that argument, but she didn’t believe in turning the other cheek. She would keep her eyes peeled for anything she could use against her rival. Forgive and forget had never been her philosophy.
Last thing at night, no matter how late it was, Elizabeth always put her hair curlers in, then gave herself a mini facial. She invited Gladys to join her in this ritual and they sipped glasses of sherry while they helped each other with their grooming. She grew to love the calm and companionship of sherry time. It was the perfect end to the working day.
A letter arrived from Tommy in August. He said he didn’t want to tempt fate by speaking too soon, but they could see the Germans deserting their trenches and taking the road toward the east, so it might not be long before he could come home to his beautiful wife.
Elizabeth frowned. How would he feel about Gladys living with them? She didn’t want to forgo sherry time, but Tommy would no doubt be hoping to reclaim his place in the marital bedroom. She tutted. Why had she ever married him? She didn’t want to share her life with a man. She would much rather carry on living with Gladys, just as they were.
I’ve grown to love the French people, Tommy wrote, and hope we can return together in peacetime. I want to sit outside cafés drinking café au lait with you and play boules with the locals in the village square. We never had a honeymoon. I owe you one.
A French honeymoon sounds delightful, Elizabeth wrote back, but can Gladys come with us? She would love to see Europe too.
Chapter 14
Helena
December 1917
Helena heard the front door slam, the sound reverberating around the apartment. She hurried out to the hall to see Edward standing there, suitcase in one hand and the envelope containing the detective’s report in the other. She was relieved he didn’t appear to have brought the boys; they must have stayed with their nanny. Thank goodness they weren’t around to witness this confrontation. She folded her arms, cocked her head, and steeled herself.
“What do you mean by this?” he shouted, waving the report. “Have you lost your mind? How dare you have me followed?” He dropped his suitcase and advanced toward her. “I’ve always known you had an obsessive jealous streak but this time you’ve gone too far.” He threw the envelope on the floor at her feet.
“Can you wonder that I am jealous when my husband takes our maid for dinner?” Helena retorted. “Don’t turn this on me, Edward. You are the adulterer.” Always he defended himself by attacking her. This time she wouldn’t let him.
His tone was calm and reasonable: “I took the girl to dinner because I fancied some clam chowder and didn’t want to sit on my own. She accompanied me for a couple of walks in the woods. That doesn’t mean we are sleeping together. You’re always nagging, always jealous. It’s boring, Helena.”
“What am I supposed to feel when you prefer the company of your friends to your wife?” Helena snapped. “When you never surprise me with thoughtful gifts, and only make love to me three times a year at most.”
Edward took off his coat and hung it on the rack. His spectacles were sliding down his nose and he pushed them up again. “You look down on me because you make more money than me. You think it gives you the right to control me. Why don’t you order me to make love to you? See if that works!”
Helena clutched her head in fury. “If I make demands, don’t you think I have a right?” she countered. “I pay for your food, your clothes, the books you read, the roof over your head. What did you do to deserve this?” She gestured around the spacious hallway with a sweep of her arm, taking in the Picasso etching on the wall and the modernist Epstein sculpture on a side table.
“You’re proving my point,” he said, nodding his head slowly, infuriatingly. “I am not your employee, Helena. I’m your husband. What’s yours is supposed to be mine. You’ve behaved with your usual selfishness, leaving me to ensure that our sons had a decent Christmas although their mother chose not to spend it with them. How do you think that made them feel?”
She couldn’t think straight. Accusations and insults were jostling inside her head but there was no arguing with his cold rationality. Instead, she grabbed a silver fox coat from the stand, picked up the oversize leather bag in which she kept day-to-day essentials, and fled the apartment, slamming the door just as loudly as he had on arrival. His parting words rang in her ears: “That’s right, run away like you always do.”
Helena didn’t have a plan but she got the doorman to call her driver and, by the time he arrived, she had made up her mind.
“Take me to Greenwich,” she said, sliding into the back seat. Let’s find out if Edward’s relationship with the girl is as innocent as he claims. There was only one way to discover the truth.
When she arrived, she found the maid dusting the sitting room, fresh-faced in her lace-edged cap and matching apron. She jumped like a startled chicken when Helena walked in. She wasn’t pretty, exactly, but she looked healthy and so young. What was her name? Helena couldn’t remember. Had she ever known?
“Will you get some tea for us both, please?” she asked. “Then join me in here.”
The girl looked terrified. A few minutes later she placed a tray on the table and sat down opposite Helena. She tried to still the shaking of her hands by clutching them in her lap and she bowed her head as if in prayer.
“Edward has told me everything,” Helena began, her tone kind, “and I want you to know that I don’t hold you responsible.”
The girl’s lip quivered. She shook her head quickly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m talking about the two of you,” Helena continued. “I know you had dinner together. My husband can be very persuasive, but you seem like a well-brought-up girl. I’m sure this is entirely out of character.”
The girl looked up as she answered. “He wanted some clam chowder and said he would feel lonely on his own. He promised you wouldn’t mind. I’m sorry if I did the wrong thing.”
She was reciting what Edward had told her to say, Helena guessed. They’d had time to get their stories straight.
“It’s not the dinner I mind about, but what happened after dinner.” Helena gave her a penetrating look. “I think you know what I mean.”
“I didn’t . . . Nothing happened after dinner.” She sounded close to tears now. Was it an act? “We came back here and I went to bed alone. I swear that’s the truth.”
She sounded convincing. Helena wanted to believe her. It was disgusting to think that Edward might have slept with someone almost thirty years younger than he was.
She poured them both cups of tea, then asked about the girl’s family and her previous work experience. She tried to make her relax her guard, before she slipped in one final question.
“You won’t mind, will you, if I telephone your parents to tell them you had dinner with my husband? I want to ask them if this is the way they brought you up.”
Suddenly, without warning, the girl broke down, sobbing so hard she was gasping for breath. Helena watched, horrified.
“P-Please don’t tell them,” the girl stuttered. She fumbled in her apron pocket, produced a handkerchief, and blew her nose. “I-I don’t know what I was thinking. Mr. Titus was kind and . . . I’ve been a fool. I swear it won’t happen again.”
Deep down, Helena hadn’t expected this. She felt numb. Her face carefully masklike, she asked, “Exactly how many times did you go to bed with my husband?”
“Just three,” the girl whispered.
Three times. The number echoed in her head. “Why only three?”
“When the boys arrived for Christmas, he insisted we shouldn’t be together anymore because it would be upsetting for them if they walked in on us.” She burst into a fresh wave of sobbing.
Helena inhaled deeply and stayed outwardly calm as her world came crashing down. So it was true. Edward was a philanderer, and a very practiced one by the sound of things. She’d been holding on to the hope that he was telling the truth, but all this time, her instincts had been correct. How many girls had there been over the years? It was beyond belief that this one was the first. Were the rest as young? She felt a rush of hatred for him.
“Pack your bags,” she said to the girl, with a gesture that dismissed her. “I want you out of here by nightfall.”
She stood and walked across to the window. Outside, frost-sparkled lawns led down to the frozen lake. The boys appeared, with their nanny. They were throwing stones at the ice, trying to smash it. Soon she would have to find the energy to answer their questions. If only she could answer her own.
Helena waited till she was alone in her bedroom before crying. She loved Edward and didn’t want to divorce him, but he had crossed a line from which there was no turning back. She could never trust him again. The girl was just an overgrown child, with her pert breasts and pillowy flesh. If that’s what he was attracted to, she couldn’t compete. She was more striking, but she would never again have the luster of youth.
She stayed in Connecticut a few more days, watching the boys at play and privately grieving for her marriage. By the time she got back to Manhattan, she was resolved. She checked into a hotel suite while her lawyer drew up a separation agreement.
The deal was that if Edward signed over his share of her business, she would continue to give him an allowance but she would no longer live with him. He could stay in the Connecticut house for now, and return to Paris after the war if he wished; she knew it was his preferred city. The boys could spend school holidays with whichever parent happened to be available. They would scarcely notice the difference since their parents had always spent time apart. Had that contributed to their problems? If they’d spent every night of their married life together, would Edward have stayed faithful? She doubted it. She doubted everything about their relationship. Maybe he’d been after her money all along; maybe he had never really loved her.
She didn’t want to see him, in case his dear familiar face made her weaken. She felt as if there was a physical wound in her heart. She had built a life with that man and had expected to grow old with him. She had lost so much, so much.
